Mr. Mannering’s illness ran on and on. Week after week the anxious
watchers waited for the crisis which did not come. It was evident now
that the patient, who had no violence in his illness any more than in
his life, was yet not to be spared a day of its furthest length. But it
was allowed that he had no bad symptoms, and that the whole matter
turned on the question whether his strength could be sustained. Dr.
Roland, not allowed to do anything else for his friend, regulated
furtively the quality and quantity of the milk, enough to sustain a
large nursery, which was sent upstairs. He tested it in every scientific
way, and went himself from dairy to dairy to get what was best; and Mrs.
Simcox complained bitterly that he was constantly making inroads into
“my kitchen” to interfere in the manufacture of the beef tea. He even
did, which was against every rule of medical etiquette, stop the great
Dr. Vereker on the stairs and almost insist upon a medical consultation,
and to give his own opinion about the patient to this great authority,
who looked him over from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot
with undisguised yet bewildered contempt. Who was this man who
discoursed to the great physician about the tendencies and the
idiosyncrasies of the sick man, whom it was a matter of something like
condescension on Dr. Vereker’s part to attend at all, and whom this
little person evidently believed himself to understand better?
“If Mr. Mannering’s friends wish me to meet you in consultation, I can
have, of course, no objection to satisfy them, or even to leave the
further conduct of the case in your hands,” he said stiffly.
“Nothing of the kind--nothing of the kind!” cried poor Dr. Roland. “It’s
only that I’ve watched the man for years. You perhaps don’t know----”
“I think,” said Dr. Vereker, “you will allow that after nearly six
weeks’ attendance I ought, unless I am an ignoramus, to know all there
is to know.”
“I don’t deny it for a moment. There is no practitioner in London
certainly who would doubt Dr. Vereker’s knowledge. I mean his past--what
he has had to bear--the things that have led up----”
“Moral causes?” said the great physician blandly, raising his eyebrows.
“My dear sir, depend upon it, a bad drain is more to be reckoned with
than all the tragedies of the world.”
“I shall not depend on anything of the kind!” cried Dr. Roland, almost
dancing with impatience.
“Then you will permit me to say good-morning, for my time is precious,”
answered his distinguished brother--“unless,” he added sarcastically,
pausing to look round upon the poor doctor’s sitting-room, then arrayed
in its morning guise as waiting-room, with all the old _Graphics_, and
picture books laid out upon the table--“Mr. Mannering’s friends are
dissatisfied and wish to put the case in your hands?”
“Do you know who Mr. Mannering’s friends are?” cried Dr. Roland. “Little
Dora, his only child! I know no others. Just about as little influential
as are those moral causes you scorn, but I don’t.”
“Indeed!” said Dr. Vereker, with more consideration of this last
statement. Little Dora was not much of a person to look to for the
rapidly accumulating fees of a celebrated doctor during a long illness.
But though he was a prudent man, he was not mercenary; perhaps he would
have hesitated about taking up the case had he known at first, but he
was not the man to retire now out of any fear of being paid. “Mr.
Mannering is a person of distinction,” he said, in a self-reassuring
tone; “he has been my patient at long intervals for many years. I don’t
think we require to go into the question further at this moment.” He
withdrew with great dignity to the carriage that awaited him, crossing
one or two of Dr. Roland’s patients, whose appearance somewhat changed
his idea of the little practitioner who had thus ventured to assail him;
while, on the other hand, Roland for his part was mollified by the
other’s magnanimous reception of a statement which seemed to make his
fees uncertain. Dr. Vereker was not in the least a mercenary man, he
would never have overwhelmed an orphan girl with a great bill: at the
same time, it did float across his mind that if the crisis were once
over which professional spirit and honour compelled him to conduct to a
good end if possible, a little carelessness about his visits after could
have no bad result, considering the constant vicinity of that very
keen-eyed practitioner downstairs.
A great doctor and two nurses, unlimited supplies of fresh milk, strong
soup, and every appliance that could be thought of to alleviate and
console the patient, by these professional persons of the highest class,
accustomed to spare no expense, are, however, things that do not agree
with limited means; and Dora, the only authority on the subject, knew
nothing about her father’s money, or how to get command of it. Mrs.
Simcox’s bills were very large in the present position of affairs, the
rooms that had been occupied by the Heskeths being now appropriated to
the nurses, for whom the landlady furnished a table more plentiful than
that to which Mr. Mannering and his daughter had been accustomed. And
when the crisis at last arrived, in the middle of a tardy and backward
June, the affairs of the little household, even had there been any
competent person to understand them, were in a very unsatisfactory state
indeed--a state over which Dr. Roland and Miss Bethune consulted in the
evenings with many troubled looks, and shakings of the head. She had
taken all the necessary outgoings in hand, for the moment as she said;
and Miss Bethune was known to be well off. But the prospect was rather
serious, and neither of them knew how to interfere in the sick man’s
money matters, or to claim what might be owing to him, though, indeed,
there was probably nothing owing to him until quarter day: and there
were a number of letters lying unopened which, to experienced eyes,
looked painfully like bills, as if quarter day would not have enough to
do to provide for its own things without responding to this unexpected
strain. Dora knew nothing about these matters. She recognised the
letters with the frankest acquaintance. They were from old book shops,
from scientific workmen who mounted and prepared specimens, from dealers
in microscopes and other delicate instruments. “Father says these are
our dressmakers, and carriages, and parties,” said Dora, half, or indeed
wholly, proud of such a distinction above her fellows.
Miss Bethune shook her head and said, “Such extravagance!” in Dr.
Roland’s ear. He was more tolerant. “They are all the pleasures the poor
man has,” he said. But they did not make the problem more easy as to how
the present expenses were to be met when the quarter’s pay came in, even
if it could be made available by Dora’s only friends, who were “no
relations,” and had no right to act for her. Miss Bethune went through a
great many abstruse calculations in the mornings which she spent alone.
She was well off,--but that is a phrase which means little or much,
according to circumstances; and she had a great many pensioners, and
already carried a little world on her shoulders, to which she had lately
added the unfortunate little Mrs. Hesketh, and the husband, who found it
so difficult to get another place. Many cares of a similar kind were on
this lady’s head. She never gave a single subscription to any of the
societies: collectors for charities called on her in vain; but to see
the little jottings of her expenses would have been a thing not without
edification for those who could understand the cipher, or, rather, the
combination of undecipherable initials, in which they were set down. She
did not put M. for Mannering in her accounts; but there were a great
many items under the initial W., which no one but herself could ever
have identified, which made it quite sure that no stranger going over
these accounts could make out who Miss Bethune’s friends were. She shook
her head over that W. If Dora were left alone, what relics would there
be for her out of the future quarter’s pay, so dreadfully forestalled,
even if the pay did not come to a sudden stop at once? And, on the other
hand, if the poor man got better, and had to face a long convalescence
with that distracting prospect before him, no neighbour any longer
daring to pay those expenses which would be quite as necessary for him
in his weak state as they were now? Miss Bethune could do nothing but
shake her head, and feel her heart contract with that pang of painful
pity in which there is no comfort at all. And in the meantime everything
went on as if poor Mannering were a millionaire, everything was ordered
for him with a free hand which a prince could have had; and Mrs. Simcox
excelled herself in making the nurses, poor things, comfortable. What
could any one do to limit this full flowing tide of liberality? Of
course, he must have everything that could possibly be wanted for him;
if he did not use it, at least it must be there in case he might use it.
What could people who were “no relations” do? What could Dora do, who
was only a child? And indeed, for the matter of that, what could any
one, even in the fullest authority, have done to hinder the sick man
from having anything which by the remotest possibility might be of use
to him? Thus affairs went on with a dreadful velocity, and accumulation
of wrath against the day of wrath.
That was a dreadful day, the end of the sixth week, the moment when the
crisis must come. It was in the June evening, still daylight, but
getting late, when the doctor arrived. Mr. Mannering had been very ill
all day, sleeping, or in a state of stupor nearly all the time, moving
his head uneasily on his pillow, but never rousing to any consciousness
of what was going on about him. The nurses, always cheerful, did not,
however, conceal their apprehensions. He had taken his beef tea, he had
taken the milk which they poured down his throat: but his strength was
gone, and he lay with no longer any power to struggle, like a forsaken
boat on the sea margin, to be drifted off or on the beach according to
the pleasure of wind and tide.
Miss Bethune sat in her room holding Dora’s hand, who, however, did not
realise that this was more important than any of the other days on which
they had hoped that “the turn” might come, and a little impatient of the
seriousness of the elder woman, who kept on saying tender words to her,
caressing her hand,--so unnecessarily emotional, Dora thought, seeing
that at all events it was not _her_ father who was ill, and she had no
reason to be so unhappy about it. This state of excitement was brought
to a climax by the sound of the doctor’s steps going upstairs, followed
close by the lighter step of Dr. Roland, whom no etiquette could now
restrain, who followed into the very room, and if he did not give an
opinion in words, gave it with his eyes, and saw, even more quickly than
the great Dr. Vereker, everything that was to be seen. It was he who
came down a few minutes later, while they were both listening for the
more solemn movements of the greater authority, descending with a rush
like that of a bird, scarcely touching the steps, and standing in the
last sunset light which came from the long staircase window behind, like
something glorified and half angelic, as if his house coat, glazed at
the shoulders and elbows, had been some sort of shining mail.
Tears were in Dr. Roland’s eyes; he waved his hand over his head and
broke forth into a broken hurrah. Miss Bethune sprang up to meet him,
holding out her hands. And in the sight of stern youth utterly
astonished by this exhibition, these two elderly people as good as
rushed into each other’s arms.
Dora was so astounded, so disapproving, so little aware that this was
her last chance for her father’s life, that she almost forgot her father
in the consternation, shame, and horror with which she looked on. What
did they mean? It could not have anything to do with her father, of whom
they were “no relations". How dared they to bring in their own silly
affairs when she was in such trouble? And then Miss Bethune caught
herself, Dora, in her arms.
“What is the matter?” cried the girl. “Oh, let me alone! I can think of
nothing but father and Dr. Vereker, who is upstairs.”
“It is all right--it is all right,” said Dr. Roland. “Vereker will take
half an hour more to make up his mind. But I can tell you at once; the
fever’s gone, and, please God, he’ll pull through.”
“Is it only you that says so, Dr. Roland?” cried Dora, hard as the
nether millstone, and careless, indeed unconscious, what wound she might
give.
“You little ungrateful thing!” cried Miss Bethune; but a shadow came
over her eyes also. And the poor practitioner from the ground floor felt
that “only you” knock him down like a stone. He gave a laugh, and made
no further reply, but walked over to the window, where he stood between
the curtains, looking out upon the summer evening, the children playing
on the pavement, all the noises and humours of the street. No, he had
not made a name for himself, he had not secured the position of a man
who has life and death in his nod. It was hard upon Dr. Roland, who felt
that he knew far more about Mr. Mannering than half a hundred great
physicians rolled into one, coming in with his solemn step at the open
door.
“Yes, I think he will do,” said Dr. Vereker. “Miss Mannering, I cannot
sufficiently recommend you to leave everything in the hands of these two
admirable women. It will be anxious work for some time yet; his strength
is reduced to the very lowest ebb, but yet, I hope, all will come right.
The same strenuous skilful nursing and constant judicious nourishment
and rest. This young lady is very young to have such an anxiety. Is
there really no one--no relation, no uncle--nor anything of that kind?”
“We have no relations,” said Dora, growing very red. There seemed a sort
of guilt in the avowal, she could not tell why.
“But fast friends,” said Miss Bethune.
“Ah, friends! Friends are very good to comfort and talk to a poor little
girl, but they are not responsible. They cannot be applied to for fees;
whereas an uncle, though perhaps not so good for the child----” Dr.
Vereker turned to Dr. Roland at the window. “I may be prevented from
coming to-morrow so soon as I should wish; indeed, the patient should be
looked at again to-night if I had time. But it is a long way to come
back here. I am sure it will be a comfort to this young lady, Dr.
Roland, if you, being on the spot, would kindly watch the case when I am
not able to be here.”
Dr. Roland cast but one glance at the doubting spectators, who had said,
“Only you.”
“With all my heart, and thank you for the confidence you put in me,” he
said.
“Oh, that,” said the great doctor, with a wave of his hand, “is only
your due. I have to thank you for one or two hints, and you know as well
as I do what care is required now. We may congratulate ourselves that
things are as they are; but his life hangs on a thread. Thank you. I may
rely upon you then? Good-evening, madam; forgive me for not knowing your
name. Good-night, Miss Mannering.”
Dr. Roland attended the great man to the door; and returned again,
taking three steps at a time. “You see,” he cried breathlessly, “I am in
charge, though you don’t think much of me. He’s not a mercenary man, he
has stayed to pull him through; but we shan’t see much more of Dr.
Vereker. There’s the fees saved at a stroke.”
“And there’s the women,” said Miss Bethune eagerly, “taking real
pleasure in it, and growing fatter and fairer every day.”
“The women have done very well,” said the doctor. “I’ll have nothing
said against them. It’s they that have pulled him through.” Dr. Roland
did not mean to share his triumph with any other voluntary aid.
“Well, perhaps that is just,” she said, regretfully; “but yet here is me
and Gilchrist hungering for something to do, and all the good pounds a
week that might be so useful handed over to them.”
Dora listened to all this, half indignant, half uncomprehending. She had
a boundless scorn of the “good pounds” of which Miss Bethune in her
Scotch phraseology spoke so tenderly. And she did not clearly understand
why this particular point in her father’s illness should be so much
more important than any other. She heard her own affairs discussed as
through a haze, resenting that these other people should think they had
so much to do with them, and but dimly understanding what they meant by
it. Her father, indeed, did not seem to her any better at all, when she
was allowed for a moment to see him as he lay asleep. But Dora,
fortunately, thought nothing of the expenses, nor how the little money
that came in at quarter day would melt away like snow, nor how the
needs, now miraculously supplied as by the ravens, would look when the
invalid awoke to a consciousness of them, and of how they were to be
provided in a more natural way.
It was not very long, however, before something of that consciousness
awoke in the eyes of the patient, as he slowly came back into the
atmosphere of common life from which he had been abstracted so long. He
was surprised to find Dr. Roland at his pillow, which that eager student
would scarcely have left by day or night if he could have helped it, and
the first glimmering of anxiety about his ways and means came into his
face when Roland explained hastily that Vereker came faithfully so long
as there was any danger. “But now he thinks a poor little practitioner
like myself, being on the spot, will do,” he said, with a laugh. “Saves
fees, don’t you know?”
“Fees?” poor Mannering said, with a bewildered consciousness; and next
morning began to ask when he could go back to the Museum. Fortunately,
all ideas were dim in that floating weakness amid the sensations of a
man coming back to life. Convalescence is sweet in youth; but it is not
sweet when a man whose life is already waning comes back out of the
utter prostration of disease into the lesser but more conscious ills of
common existence. Presently he began to look at the luxuries with which
he was surrounded, and the attendants who watched over him, with alarm.
“Look here, Roland, I can’t afford all this. You must put a stop to all
this,” he said.
“We can’t be economical about getting well, my dear fellow,” said the
doctor. “That’s the last thing to save money on.”
“But I haven’t got it! One can’t spend what one hasn’t got,” cried the
sick man. It is needless to say that his progress was retarded, and the
indispensable economies postponed, by this new invasion of those cares
which are to the mind what the drainage which Dr. Vereker alone believed
in is to the body.
“Never mind, father,” Dora said in her ignorance; “it will all come
right.”
“Right? How is it to come right? Take that stuff away. Send these nurses
away. I can’t afford it. Do you hear me? I cannot afford it!” he began
to cry night and day.